Artist
by FlitShadowflame
Summary: Remy LeBeau gets by how he can. I guess this is sort of a song fic. Has somehow become a vignette series. Could be more to come eventually, if I think of another good song.
1. Witch Doctor

A/N: no idea who the song belongs to, if anyone. I heard it from Spencer Bohren, and he's the only one I know who has lyrics up on the Internet. If you don't know who Spencer is, Google him…the man is a virtuoso, a musical genius. He deserves more praise than I have time for.

This is just an experimental little one-shot. I was reading another X-Men comic the other day and Remy was begging to be written about…I obliged. What can I saw? I'm a sucker for those devil eyes…

Remy had learned a lot of ways to survive on the streets. He had been a child prostitute and pick-pocket; he had even done another short stint as a rent-boy while stranded in L.A. and unwilling to ask Jean-Luc to wire him money. Thankfully, two nights of that were enough to get him back on his feet. He had learnt several kinds of street performing, mainly for use as distractions while another member of Fagan's Mob would pick the crowd clean.

But his favorite wasn't card-tricks or parlor magic. It was music, had always been music. As an eight-year-old kid looking for a cheap instrument to steal, he'd hit a second-hand music store, to case the joint before he went for the grab. And that's when he saw it, the funniest looking guitar he'd ever seen.

"Y'like de lap steel, _petit_?" the proprietor asked in a gravelly N'Awlins twang.

"Dat what it called?" Le Diable Blanc raised an eyebrow like he'd seen the older boys do.

"_Ouais_. A Lap Steel Guitar…dey don' hardly make 'em no mawh. Was all replaced by 'lectric guitars…but de lap steel, she got 'er own sound, special soun'."

"Yeah?" Le Diable Blanc asked challengingly. "Show me."

And the old man took the lap steel out and plugged her in to an amp. And he took a lump of metal and made the guitar whine and moan, sounds that made the hairs on the street urchin's neck stand up.

"Lemme teach you a song, _petit_," the old man smiled.

The price of the guitar was much reduced, and the boy stole as much in cash easily. That song was a little beyond his fingers and his voice at this point, but he'd play it someday, he promised himself. In the mean time, he paid the old man what he could sneak from under the Mob's nose for decent lessons in his creepy new instrument.

When he was exiled, the lap steel was relegated to a storage unit belonging to the Thieves' Guild, but it arrived just before his New York hotel was about to forcibly eject him.

It kept him sane and helped him survive, when he could swing coffee shops and other electric venues. The perils of an electric instrument.

The blues bar was far from his normal scene. He was playing for a meal, a drink, fifty bucks, and whatever he could get in tips.

He purred into the mic, "Dis ol' lap steel, she ain' much of a blues fan. But mebbe we got somethin' else f' y'all." He tuned her up and tapped out the introduction, making her thrum and whine like the old man had, so many years before.

"Stalkin' through New Orleans in the middle of the night,

Red eyes flashin'

Hidin' in the bushes, always stays outta sight,

Violent passion

You never hear 'im comin' 'cause he don't make a sound,

Like a shadow passin'

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

Stirrin' up the gumbo on the Bayou St. John,

Mojo lightning.

Gator teeth and finger-bones, he stirs until dawn,

Owh - it's so frightenin'.

Never let 'im catch ya 'cause he'll give you a dose

Feel your jugular tightenin'

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

Pelebe mi tobe-o  
Pelebe mi tobe-o  
Ba uba-a ba uba-a  
Pelebe mi tobe-o

Ibarajo mojuba  
Iarajo mojuba  
Irere-ay sho-sho-abe  
Ibarajo mojuba

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you

He's the witch doctor

Put a spell on you"

The crowd looked stunned. Remy's sexually provocative voice and inherently exotic Acadian accent were bound to draw interest, but when coupled with good singing and the bittersweet tones of a well-played instrument, he was irresistible.

He noted the tip hat filling with more than three hundred in cash, and smiled to himself. To one reluctant listener, he tipped his head down to peer at the man over his sunglasses – red eyes flashing.

The man took a sharp breath and sat up straight.

He dropped a twenty and rushed away, making Remy laugh, a warm, charming sound that piqued the ladies' interests.

_Put a spell on you_.


	2. Jambalaya

How to pronounce Bohren: "bo" like Tae-bo and "wren" like the bird. I had a devil of a time with it until someone said it to me, also.

Some minor alterations have been made for the sake of clarity and grammar. The song is the most changed part, might wanna skim over that if you didn't read it the first time.

.-Artist: Jambalaya-.

Fairs and folk concerts had become ways for Remy to feed himself, supplements to the usual income provided by theft or whatever else he did to get by. Best of all, he rarely needed to pay for a stall. He carried instruments close enough to another artist's ensemble to be considered a roadie, then set up shop stealing power from wherever he had the opportunity. As long as he didn't ask and wasn't refused, then, wasn't it free?

The lap steel, as always, was his first and most trusted instrument. But along the way he had picked up a regular guitar, which he sometimes played with the curved steel tool that made his lap guitar hum. There was the ubiquitous cabasa and tambourine, for simple percussive music. And when the mood struck him, he could put down all the instruments and just sing and charm (usually just with his smile, not his power) women into giving him money and company.

Well, he could charm women or men if he felt like it, but he didn't usually work on men if it wasn't for money, after his childhood. He knew he could handle most women if it came to a fight, not that he would ever lay a finger on a woman who hadn't seriously provoked him. But with men there were no assurances or guarantees, and while he sometimes looked admiringly, he hadn't touched a man that way since he was doing his last stint as a rent-boy.

It was upstate New York, an unusual place for a folk festival, but he wasn't about to protest. This time he'd actually signed up to come as an amateur; his corner of the place was free of charge.

"Whatcha gonna play, mister?" a pretty teenager in a yellow rain jacket asked.

"Y'evah heard a' Jambalaya, cher?" he asked, gracing her with a roguish grin. The tough next to her with pointed hair snorted.

"'s just Cajun food, Jubes," the tough muttered.

"Jus' Cajun food 'e says," Remy clucked despairingly. "Firs', 's a combination a' Creole an' Cajun food. 'Course, th' Cajun kind is best, but that's not the point. It's a meat and vegetable dish with rice, cher. More importantly, it's the name a' th' song Remy gon' sing for ya."

Jubes, or whatever her name was, beamed. The tough rolled his eyes but settled in to wait.

A few twanging guitar chords and some body slaps, and Remy was off.

"Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh  
Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou  
My Bel'donn', sweetest one, me oh my oh  
Son of a gun, gonna have big fun on the bayou

Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo  
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see ma cher amio  
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-oh  
Son of a gun, gonna have big fun on the bayou.

Thibodeaux, Fontainbleau, the place is buzzin'  
Kinfolks come to see Bel'donn' by the dozen  
Dress in style, go hog wil', me oh my oh  
Son of a gun, gonna have big fun on the bayou.

Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo  
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see ma cher amio  
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-oh  
Son of a gun, gonna have big fun on the bayou.

Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo  
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see ma cher amio  
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-oh  
Son of a gun, gonna have big fun on the bayou."

Less than two verses in, he'd gathered a crowd of twenty to thirty listeners. Cajun music was electrifying, or so he'd always thought. If he'd had an accordion and fiddler he could've shown these folks some real songs.

"Thought the song was 'bout Yvonne," the tough muttered. Remy flashed him a smile.

"I always sing 'bout m' Bell'donna when I can fit 'er name in."

"Girlfriend?"

"F'r a while, yeah." Remy didn't feel like explaining his roller coaster of a relationship with Belladonna Boudreaux.

"How do you dance to something like that?" Jubes asked after the song was over.

He grinned broadly. "Remy glad y' ask that, cher." He flagged down a fellow Cajun he'd managed to encounter while setting up. "Lou, y'know anything Remy can Cajun slap to, homme?" he asked genially.

"Sped up Jambalaya if'n y' wan' the crowd t' follow along. More the Jo-El Sonnier or Credence Clearwater Revival version than the Carpenter one," Louis suggested.

"Anyone else wanna learn? Dance lessons is three dollars each, one t' the musician," he nodded to Lou, who hadn't actually expected any payment. Remy handed over a guitar and stepped down from the platform. He smiled invitingly and got some twenty six takers. Forty some dollars off a few minutes of dance wasn't too bad.

"Cajun Slap's a repetitive dance, very much country-line stuff," he shrugged. "Hope y' all got belts, though," he laughed. "'Cos dat's where she start an' end." He ran through the steps slowly once, and did them in reverse in front of the struggling crowd. They were clever folks, though, and Cajun Slap _was_ an easy dance, so it didn't take too long for them to get it down. He even got quite a few tips, which he judiciously split with Lou.

"Thanks for the lesson, Remy," Jubes grinned at him and kissed his cheek. He gave her a startled look she probably wouldn't be able to detect through his sunglasses.

"Twas m' pleasure, cher," he replied gallantly, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

The tough looked at him with his eyes narrowed. When Jubes flounced off, he mouthed "Jail bait" before walking away.


	3. Jolie Blonde

A/N: I'm using a 1928 version of the lyrics. English translation is below the fic, which should make everything else a bit clearer. This song is considered by many to be the "Cajun National Anthem," as it were, and deserves at least an accordion. But the chord progression is pretty simple and could probably be managed on a straightforward acoustic guitar. Regardless, I've decided to start giving Remy back up.

-

Remy actually had a paying gig, in a bar. It wasn't much, but it would take care of rent. Besides, he could pickpocket some of the patrons when his set was finished. Drunks hardly ever noticed their money missing unless they were buying more drink. Even then, they were quick to assume they'd simply spent it all themselves.

All in all, he was okay with this gig. He didn't know the other musicians, but they seemed decently skilled. He started the night off easy. They'd heard the song before and he told them all the right chords. He couldn't believe his luck to get an accordion and a fiddler; with his acoustic they were practically a Cajun band waiting to happen. No drummer, unfortunately, but that would probably just confuse things initially anyway.

He wasn't really a sentimental type. But he couldn't help but notice his anniversary, sad as that was. Remy picked a blonde out of the audience and decided to pretend for a little while, just to get the words off his chest.

"Jolie blonde, regardez donc quoi t'as fait,  
Tu m'as quitte pour t'en aller,  
Pour T'en aller avec un autre, oui, que moi,  
Quel espoir et quel avenir, mais, moi, je vais avoir?

"Jolie blonde, tu m'as laisse, moi tout seul,  
Pour t'en aller chez ta famille.  
Si t'aurais pas ecoute tos les conseils de les autres  
tu serait ici-t-avec moi aujourd 'hui

"Jolie blonde, tu croyais il y avait just toi,  
Il y a pas just toi dans le pays pour moi aimer.  
Je peux trouver just une autre jolie blonde,  
Bon Dieu sait, moi, j'ai un tas."

She might have thought he was singing her a love song. There were versions of Jolie Blonde that had been cleaned up to sound like romantic tripe. But he'd always preferred the classic version, and recently it rather fit him better. If he thought about it, this version had _always_ suited him better, though the women in his life didn't usually do the leaving.

No matter. He could find another pretty blonde, though no one could truly replace Belladonna.

-

English lyrics:  
Pretty blond, look at what you've done,  
You left me to go away,  
to go away with another, yes, than me,  
What hope and what future am I going to have?

Pretty blond, you've left me all alone  
To go back to your family.  
If you had not listened to all the advice of the others  
You would be here with me today.

Pretty blond, you thought there was just you,  
There is not just you in the land to love me.  
I can find another pretty blond,  
Good God knows, I have a lot.


End file.
